Conquering Horse

by Frederick Manfred

  The old dame turned on Sounds The Ground. “Where is the scalp of my son Sharp Horn? His spirit cries for revenge!”

  Sounds The Ground got to his feet. He pointed to the door. “Old mother, each thing in its own time. When we have finished with this council, we will listen to what you have to say.”

  Rough Arm could no longer contain his towering rage. He let go with a great bellow. “Waugh! And I say we shall listen to what she has to tell us! I too wish to know where our brother Sharp Horn has gone! Does anyone see him here? Can we let his mother suffer the torment of his loss without striking in return? No! Death to the Sioux!” Rough Arm gave an explosive downward gesture with his hand, the sign for death. “I have said.”

  The crowd in the shadows began to cry loudly for the death of the Sioux intruder. Meanwhile the warriors around the circle sat in stiff dignity. Only their eyes showed interest. They burned like winking coals.

  No Name understood what was wanted. He waited. He was ready.

  Sounds The Ground raised his hand. He spoke slowly, with quiet even composure, his eye lingering on each face in turn. “My children, I am a mild man. You know this. For fifteen winters I have herded you like a band of horses. In the winter I have defended you here in the village against the enemy. In the summer I have led you over the wide plains and found buffalo for you. My tongue has been worn thin and my teeth have been loosened in giving you advice. Listen. Listen well. My advice to you now is that we honor this guest who has come to your chief to ask where the great white stallion lives. The dream of this Sioux is wakan. It is fated that he will catch the fierce white horse of whom we have often talked. We cannot oppose the will of his god. No one was there to see who killed Sharp Horn. Has our guest waved Sharp Horn’s scalp in our faces to taunt us with it? No. It is thus my advice that we should help him in his quest.” Again he looked each warrior in the eye. “We are known as the men of men. Loa-ah. Let each now speak what is in his heart. Whatever is decided upon let it be manly. I will listen. I have said.”

  Rough Arm gave No Name yet another venomous look. Then, glancing down at the pipe where it lay resting in its forked stick in front of the firepit, he said to Sounds The Ground, “Father, your tobacco stinks. If I smoke more of it I will taste the blood of our brother Sharp Horn. I wish to kill this dog of a Sioux. It will please me to see the white skull of this young Sioux upon the ground. The teeth in the skull of a young man are sound and beautiful. When one sees the white skull of a young man, such a skull appears to say, ‘I have died when I should and have not waited at home until my teeth were worn to the gums eating dried meat.’ Therefore let us kill this young Sioux because it is a good thing to do. I have said.”

  No Name caught the meaning of the exchange of Pawnee words. He stood very straight, defiant, and cried, “Pawnee, listen! This I have to say. I want to die here! Come, kill me! You are many, I am one. You are in your own village, I am in a strange place. I want to die here! Come, strike! My heart was made to beat so that it might be stopped by my enemies. My lips were made to move so that they might be stilled by those who hate me. My scalp lock was braided long so that it might be taken with ease from my skull. Strike! I want my father to know that I have done this. It is what he wanted when he had me born.”

  Sounds The Ground translated No Name’s words into Pawnee.

  A gasp went around the circle. The motley crowd behind moved back into the shadows under the wall. All, including Rough Arm, marveled at this show of bravery.

  Again Sounds The Ground looked at the faces around the circle. “You see? You asked for his life because an old woman comes crying into my lodge saying that her son has been killed. Yet no one has seen him killed. What can I do? This Sioux has been told by his god to visit me. Also he has eaten of my food. I cannot kill a man who has eaten with me in my lodge, who has smoked the pipe with me, who has drunk of my family water. Are the Pawnees to be known as treacherous hosts?” The eyes of Sounds The Ground searched each face around the circle. “What do my friends say? Shall he live? He is brave. He has a sacred quest.”

  “Let him live!” cried certain of the braves as with one voice.

  A murmur of assent went around the firepit and through the crowd behind in the shadows.

  Rough Arm saw the drift of the meeting. He stood stiffly a moment; then, with a final throw of bitter eyes at No Name, stalked from the circle and stooped out through the door.

  Sounds The Ground turned to the old mother. “Woman, go bury your son. After my guest has departed we will consider your trouble. Each thing in its own time.”

  When the warriors and the crowd had dispersed, Sounds The Ground turned to No Name and said, “By your bravery you have saved your life. Also the life of Leaf your wife. I shall make white the road to where the wakan stallion lives. There will not be one blood spot on it.”

  “Ai! my father, my mind is big when I look at you.”

  “My son, I do this because of your father Redbird. When you were a child at his feet he was kind to me. Where he stepped I stepped. I trod where his feet were placed in the grass. Though he was of the enemy I had one mind with him. Also, my heart is sad because of what has happened to Leaf. I was chosen to catch an enemy virgin. I had to go. My heart is sad.”

  “My father, I shall tell my father Redbird all the things I have seen.”

  “Loa-ah. It is good. I will give you two horses. We will get Leaf from her hiding place. Then we will ride with you to the brink of the River That Sinks to make certain that Rough Arm and his young braves do not attack you until you are safely across.”

  5

  Riding a prancing blood bay, Sounds The Ground pointed out the true way. Sounds The Ground held his mount tightly reined in, so that its chin lay almost on its chest. Beside him rode No Name on a sorrel gelding, with Leaf following behind on a dun mare. A mounted guard of honor accompanied them, four fierce warriors ahead on white horses, four on the right on red horses, four on the left with blue horses, and four behind on black horses. The tail and mane of every horse was bedecked with bright eagle feathers. Each bridle bore several enemy scalps.

  They rode across a vast expanse of grass, waving in the early morning wind, rising and falling. The eye ached to make out the end of it. In the swales the grass sometimes rose as high as a horse’s ears. Where the wind and rain had blown it down it clogged the way. Every now and then large flocks of green parroquets whirled past, screaming harshly, joyous with morning euphoria. Wild turkeys rose from a growth of chokecherries, first crying “quit, quit,” and then scolding “quawk, quawk!” Further along buzzards sat perched on the naked red skeletons of buffalo.

  They trotted gently down a low slope, crossed a meadow yellow with sunflowers, stepped down a low bench, walked through a fringe of fluttering little cottonwoods, finally stood on the banks of the River That Sinks. Ahead was the ford.

  No Name saw that the river was as his father had said, flowing in some places as after a rain on flat ground, in other places not flowing at all, and all of it sand. The river looked more like a lacework of many streams than one stream.

  The four guards on the white horses ahead splashed in. Sounds The Ground, No Name, and Leaf followed. Sometimes the water was knee deep, sometimes hoof deep. The water flowed in a rising gush one moment, in a sinking gush the next. It played out in a dozen sheets, vanished into gold sand, reappeared as a weak spring a dozen yards further down. A thick desert of fine sand seemed to be always blocking its way, yet always the river kept pushing east toward the Great Smoky Water. The river had padded up its bed so that it seemed higher than the meadows to either side.

  Sounds The Ground pointed to some lighter mush sand to one side. “My son, it is in such a place that the sand sucks. It will swallow a horse and a man before another can gallop away to get help.”

  “I will remember, my father.”

  “Should your horse fall into it in the night, remember to lie flat.” Sounds The Ground pointed to an old weathered white cottonwood lying
half submerged in the quicksand. “That old friend has slept a dozen winters in the same place because he lies flat. So fall flat, my son, and lie on your back until help comes.”

  “I have it painted on my mind, my father.”

  Little green willows fringed the edge of one of the larger islands in the middle. The island was covered with a thick mulch of fermenting leaves. At its far end stood a single bull willow, horse-high, its thin feathery arms bent by wind and tortured by high water. Debris still hung caught in its highest fork, marking the passing of a boiling flood long ago.

  They moved quietly, gently, in deference to Leaf. Water and frogs sprayed ahead of the throwing hooves.

  Further along they scared up a flock of great white cranes. The cranes were as tall as a man. They were so heavy that they had to jump off the ground before they could become air-borne. They floated away across the silver river, gradually mounting the skies, to rise at last to such a great height they seemed no larger than mosquitoes.

  The horsebackers reached the farther bank and climbed it. They climbed the first bench and then the higher slope. Ahead to the south lay another vast sweep of short-grass country. They rode on, bobbing lightly. The only sounds were the pock-pock-pock of hooves and the gingling of rattles and the whistling of tails.

  An hour later they reached the top of the first divide. Beyond, sliding slowly away, spread another sweep of land, ending finally in a wide valley. Through the center of the valley ran a fringe of willows.

  Sounds The Ground signaled for all to stop. He pointed toward the fringe of willows. “My son, there you see a stream. It is known to us as the River of Blue Mud. It runs thinly and it is not very wide. Pass through the opening you see there in the willows and you will be safe from the sucking sand. Do not stop, but go on. Soon, beyond another lift in the land, you will find a second shallow stream. We call this stream the River of Little Ducks. It is not as wide as the River That Sinks. On the other side of this river you will see a cliff of the color of old pemmican. Cross it there. To the east of the cliff you will see three very high hills. There you will find the drinking place of the great white stallion. He comes there with his mares and colts. He may graze very far away, sometimes far up the river, sometimes far down the river, yet he drinks only at this place. At noon. This I saw.”

  “I will remember.”

  “Beyond this river live the Kansa. They once were great killers.” A strange look passed over Sounds The Ground’s face, as if what he had to say next distressed him. “They will not come this summer. They have had much sickness. Many have died from the spots. It is a sickness that comes with a fat fly whose bite burns. The fly lays a sweetness like maple sap with its tail and then eats it. It is a very strange fly and it has caused many deaths. I do not like it. It is a pet of men who are born with white paint on their faces and who come from the east.”

  “I hear, my father.”

  Sounds The Ground sniffed the sky, then looked at the grass underfoot. “It is now the Moon of Fat Horses, the time when the white stallion likes to eat blue-eyed grass in low places. Because he is a great leader he loves the smell of flowers. This is something you may well remember.”

  “My ear is open, father.”

  “Once he tried to kill me. He will try to kill you. Once he took away my mare. He will try to take away Leaf’s mare. He hates all men.”

  “It is fated that I shall catch him. I am ready.”

  “May you live to see your vision come true. Loa-ah.”

  Then without further word, No Name and Leaf rode on. The warriors on the four white horses ahead slowly separated into pairs, leaving them a clear path to the south. The warriors looked away so that No Name would not have to say the going-away word.

  When they had ridden well out of sight, No Name at last looked at Leaf. His eyes were stern. “Woman, much time will go by before I catch the white horse.”

  “I will be waiting each day with warm soup.”

  “The child may come before I catch him.”

  “My mother Full Kettle has told me how it is with a woman at such a time.”

  Her quick answers made him smile. “Well, then, my wife, I see that we are both ready. It is good. Tomorrow we shall see the great wild stallion.”

  She smiled back, an impish look in her willow-leaf eyes. “I have already seen him.”

  “Ho,” he cried, “and when was this?”

  “He was very winning. He likes to catch young maidens who bathe alone in rivers.”

  “I see the gods have given me a wife who likes to jest.”

  “It is sometimes a good thing to laugh.”

  He took the lead. They rode across the barrens, a hard gray-yellow land sparsely covered with buffalo grass. Occasionally they came upon patches of foxgrass, headed out silky silver, waving, bending at the least touch of wind, swaying even to the air currents stirred up by the walking horses. The high country was so dry in places that the prickly pear cactus had coiled in upon itself. Occasionally the horses nosed down to smell the hardpan soil, then jerked up and plodded on. The burning appearance of the prairie hurt the eyes.

  It was almost sundown when No Name finally reined in and held up his hand. He leaned forward from the hips, palm over his eyes, peering over the sorrel’s ears. The sorrel’s ears worked, first one fuzzy earhole ahead, then the other. They had ridden just far enough for No Name to see clearly down the slope of a shallow valley ahead. The valley was almost as wide as that of the River That Sinks. But the stream running through it was smaller. He studied the trees and was surprised to see they were very tall, as high as the cottonwoods at home beside Falling Water. The stream ran in slow doubling turns, coming out of a brilliant yellow sunset in the west and disappearing into a blue-green haze in the east. He let his eye run along the ridge of bluffs across the river, at last spotted the cliff of the color of old pemmican, and then the three high hills. Staring hard, he saw no sign of horses.

  After sitting patiently for some time behind him, Leaf spoke up. “Do you see him?”

  “It is past his drinking time. He drinks at noon.”

  “Then why do we wait here, my husband?” She was uncomfortable on the horse and stirred as if longing to step down. “Also, you will soon want supper.”

  He continued to look.

  “My husband—”

  “—patience, woman.”

  She sighed, fell silent. Her head tipped forward.

  He wanted a safe hiding place not too far from the three bluffs. Again he studied the cliff, especially along the base, to see if he could find the opening of a cave.

  A shadow from on high gradually edged over them.

  She spoke up again. “It will soon rain, my husband. How much longer must we wait?”

  He glanced around. A thunderhead hung high in the northwest. It resembled an eagle standing on tall slim legs, its wings outspread, ready to take off. A spear of lightning zigzagged to earth. A moment later the two thin sheets of rain under the thunderhead thickened. “It will be a quiet rain,” he said. “I do not see any wind clouds.”

  She sighed, fell silent.

  “Come,” he said at last, “we will try the cliff and hope to find a cave.”

  “We will not build a tepee?”

  “Woman, we do not have the hide to build one. Also, it is easily seen. We will live in a cave if there is one.”

  She began to half-croon, half-wail to herself. “My life is sad. My lover leaves me. The Pawnees take me and bury me in the sand. And now my baby is to be born in a cave.”

  “Woman, a man does not wish to hear much said on the same thing.”

  “A dark wet cave for my child.”

  “I wish a safe place.”

  “It is told of the Old Ones that they lived in caves. Must we go back to live as they did?”

  He held up his hand for silence. “Shh, my helper is telling me a thing. I am listening.” He cupped his hand over his fat braid. He listened, gravely. Finally he said, “Come, there will be a pla
ce.”

  They descended into the shallow valley. The grass underfoot thickened. It lay tangled on the ground in some places, brushed the undersides of the bellies in others. The horses bent down to eat, tearing off large mouthfuls as they went along. The scent of the cropped grass was sweet in the nostril.

  “The grass is so thick that some has died,” he mused, looking straight down.

  “There are snakes,” she said.

  “They will not hurt us. They are wakan and our friends.”

  “They make two holes in the skin and then the leg swells up like a bowel roasted over a fire. Sometimes the holes bring death.”

  “Such a thing is fated.”

  They found a stony ford, crossed over pale ocher waters, and rode to the base of the chalk cliff.

  While she held the horses, he went on foot and searched the entire length of the cliff. Bank swallows cut across the sky like flying arrows. He poked through all the bushes, found only short cutback ravines. He next climbed to the top of the cliff, going up the slope. The land above spread south in a long level plateau. He walked all along the irregular edge of the cliff, carefully going around each ravine. Still he found no place for them to hide.

  He was beginning to wonder if his medicine had lost its power, when he happened to notice a cottonwood lying across the bottom of one of the deepest ravines. Its roots still had a good hold on the falling wall and it was very much alive. It was a fat tree and its shiny, glittering green leaves completely filled the floor of the ravine. Examining the tree more closely, he saw a small stream trickling out from under it. The stream ran shallow across shale for a ways, then ran deep through a narrow meadow, at last broke through the fringe of cottonwoods along the river.

  “Ha-ho! this is the place my helper told me I would find.”

  He descended to the base of the cliff, took off his moccasins, and, barefooted, followed the stream to its source under the fallen tree. And there, under the tree, he found a cave. It augered back into the cliff a good dozen yards. It was high enough to be dry and yet was but a couple of steps from running water. Once he and Leaf had enough meat and pemmican stored away, they could live in it for weeks without having to show themselves. Better yet, the fallen tree was thick enough to disperse the smoke of any small fire they might make.